A Shot in the Dark
by Floodtail- AKA Floody
Summary: "Sometimes, the right thing to do is the hardest thing of all. Victorious/Hunger Games crossover. on hiatus
1. The Reaping

Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω

The sun sends a single dying ray upward as it falls softly against the charred ground, bloody streaks striping over flecked brown.

I creep softly over the bare soil and scan the horizon where a barbed fence rises. Nothing. Good. My hand works around the worn leather handle of a hunting knife, fingers flexing taut against the sharp blade, silver and splotched caramel colors of old bloodstains spattering the weaved hilt. Coal dust has taken its toll on this knife; it is tarnished black with the soft shifts of fire fuel.

My eyes widen to take in the slowly fading light, stepping forward lightly, my old jacket blending in with the shadowy verticals of the trees, shoulders sloping as I crouch beside the ancient bark of an elm tree. A slight frown curls my lips as I hear the almost imperceptible crunch of leaves, signaling the approach of animal.

My knife flies from my hand almost before I think, reflex— a silent flash of deadly silver that spirals through the air. I hear a soft muffled thud, a sharp squeal, and then all is quiet.

My feet carry me forward, a silent whisper of feet on dead leaves and earth. I sigh sadly as I see the limp, bleeding, dead body of a rabbit, fallen among the twisting roots of an ash tree with my knife protruding from its throat, blood slowly spilling onto the earth. I don't like killing. It hurts.

But it's my life or an animal's, and that's no choice at all, at all.

Pardon me. I haven't introduced myself, have I? It's a thing easily forgotten, a name is, and I know this better than others.

The name is Tori, though. Tori Vega. It's really Victoria, but that name is soft, weak, and in Panem…

The weak don't survive long.

They don't survive in District 12—nobody does, unless you're primal, living off the land to survive.

Survival. 

We're all civilized animals, then. We survive, we talk, we have customs, but when you get down to the flesh of things, we're no better than any animal. Worse, perhaps, for all of our harsh cruelty and barbarian ways.

I hate how we live. 

I pick up the bloody rabbit and make my way into the trees, ears alert.

The soft babbling murmur of a stream guides me to my favorite place in the forest, a small, sheltered pool. It's surrounded on three sides by rock, one wall of stone wet and carved inward with a small fall of water that breaks downward into the clear crystal pool, splashing and throwing icy drops back. Ferns pad the sides of this little hollow, lush and green and smelling of home. My fingers twitch as water drips off the callused pads of them, skin becoming translucent as the water washes away the dust of the day's work. I drop the slain rabbit in the soft mossy ground surrounding the pool and sit down, feet crying in relief as I settle among the soft bracken. 

Night is falling and I can see the first twinkles of stars through the broken, animated, rustling ceiling of trees and leaves. Fireflies glow softly in the distance, sometimes hidden by the sharp silhouettes of trees.

My hands go to work; I've done this millions of times. I yank the knife from the throat of the rabbit, wincing as blood spills coldly from the wound and stains the moss a dark red. I wash it in the pool, eyes lingering for a moment as the blood flowers in the dark water and then is washed away.

I tuck the knife into its sheathe and use a soft strip of moss to tie around the torn flesh of the rabbit's throat. On a whim I close the glassy eyes that stare at nothing, a shiver running up my spine. Then I stuff it into the deerskin game bag slung around my back, rising to my feet and melting into the trees. 

I'm home before the sun is completely fallen. The dark shadowy shape of our house beckons me forward; the light spilling from the windows is a buttery yellow that sprawls among the hard cobblestone street of the Seam. I live in the last district of Panem.

District Twelve, where only the strong survive. 

I must be strong.

My sister's voice rings out jovially as soon as I enter, the door shifting over worn hardwood floor behind me as it slams shut. "Tori! _Finally_, you're home. Got anything?"

"Trina! Shush! You know the house could be bugged." A smile works its way onto my lips nevertheless. I always love coming home, because even if we're hungry most of the time and we're poor, we're happy. We love each other.

"I don't care." She emerges from the double bedroom we share, hair gleaming in the firelight. "If you brought squirrel, I'll kill you."

"Lucky you then," I say smugly, pulling the soft, cold body of the rabbit from the game bag. Her eyes light up and I smirk, dropping it back in the worn leather. She gives me an appreciative smile before going into the main room of the house that serves as the living room and kitchen. I smile when I see my mother at work in the small corner of it, her hands flying to scrub the dusty counters.

We aren't as poor as most, luckily. We can afford little treats once in a while; what with my father being a head coal miner, he gets paid more. My mother works for the mayor and as this, she gets extra pay too.

I wouldn't trade what I have for anything.

"Tori. You're home." My mother turns, giving me a soft, beaten smile, edged around the corners with laugh lines. "Your friend Catarina came over. She's in your room."

"What's she here for?" I frown slightly, brow furrowing over as I set the bag down and slide it toward my mother.

"Go see," she offers, pulling the thick leather sack toward her. "I'm going to make dinner now."

"Okay!" 

My mother thanks me and I kick off my hunting boots before heading into the double room that serves as Trina and I's room. It's a bare-walled room with one large window, a square bed with mahogany head and backboard, and a tall dresser. Trina has her own mirror and brush that lie on the wooden drawers—small and dusty, and the brush has several broken bristles—but she treasures them regardless.

Catarina Valentine, known through the Seam as 'Cat', is sitting on the bed, a small paper in her slender hands, bouncing the balls of her feet and making the mattress shake slightly.

Her hair is a dark blood red in the starlight that gleams through the window and her smile is radiant as I flick on the small lamp on. It sputters to life with a flickering yellow warmth and Cat greets me in her usually bubbly way, springing from the bed. I grin at her and sit on the bed, wiping away quickly the small bloodstain on the back of my palm before she sees it.

"Tori, guess what?" She says quietly, the usually animated ditzy personality she wears gone.

"What is it, kitten?" I say softly, ruffling her hair as she gives me a sad look. 

"The reaping is tomorrow, remember?"

"Yeah," I say, internally cringing as I remember, mouth twisting sharply in a grimace. Cat's auburn eyebrows dig over her nose in a furrowing frown. "I'm sure you won't be drawn. Or me," I add as she opens her mouth. "Neither of us go in for tesserae, remember? Your dad is the mayor, so you don't need that crap they call grain. And my family fares well enough without it."

"I know," she whimpers. "But I just hate seeing everyone die." Her voice becomes miserable. "And they treat it all like it's fun, watching people being slaughtered, killing each other—for, for fun, Tori. It's not fun. It's _mean."  
><em>

_"_Cat, you don't say stuff like that out loud." I tap the side of her head and force on a weak smile. "Keep it all in here, remember?"

"Sometimes the words just come out like—like '_poof'!" _She says, covering her mouth, words muffled. "They just burst out. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay. Just don't say them anymore." I frown a little, hands wringing together. Cat's words are true, and she doesn't even know it.

This nation is hell in a hand basket.

"Go on home, Cat. You have to look nice for tomorrow. I'll see you then," I add, almost out of reflex, rising from the soft mattress. "Good night."

"Good night, Tori!" She wraps me in a crushing hug and springs out of my room, humming slightly, tune bubbling up from the porcelain skin of her throat as I follow her. The front door clicks shut as she disappears into the night, the flash of red hair the last thing I see before darkness swallows her whole.

__ Ω

The day dawns overcast and clouded the next morning, sun webbing the splotchy gray clouds as it breaks in rippled dapples over the dusty cobblestone street. I wake up with a yawn and leap from bed as I remember what the day is. Trina is still snoring in her bed, brown hair haloed out in rumpled curls on the dark pillow as she grunts in her sleep and rolls over.

With a coy glance and a sly smirk, I lean down and take a breath before screaming in her ear. "Trina! Wake _up!" _

__She shoots up like somebody stabbed her and gives me a deathly glare that is minimized by her yawn. "Tori, what the hell?"

"It's the day of the reaping, remember?" 

"Oh yeah," she snorts sarcastically, adding in a high, nasally voice, "May the odds be _ever _in my favor." 

"It's 'your,' not 'my'."

"Whatever." She rolls from the bed, hand smoothing down her hair and a yawn parting her jaws as she snatches her brush and mirror and leaves the room. I frown slightly and grab my soft boots, thick dark pants, and a white shirt that is fancily ruffled in the front. A grim smile crosses my lips, as I remember how 'fancy' we have to be for this occasion of death. 

After five minutes of making myself look presentable, I pad into the main room with a gaping yawn. My mom is up and in the kitchen, making a sparse breakfast of grainy bread, dark basil, and wild raspberries. 

She only gets them because I hunt illegally in the woods. Without the sacks of game I bring home, we'd be slowly starving. Most of my parent's income goes to paying for the house and the goats we own.

"Morning, Tori," My father says quietly as I enter. His worn, scarred hands rest atop the table, black half moons of fingernails carving silently into the table. His fingers are crescents of coal dust and I brush them as I pass by to help my mom with the breakfast.

"Tell Trina to hurry up, David," My mother says as she stirs the basil in fire-boiled water. "I swear, that girl treats everything like it's a Capitol fashion show."

"I shudder to think what she'd be like in the arena," my dad replies with a humorless smile, rising from the table and going into our double room. "Killing fashionably, she would."

I take the plate of bread; a half-loaf slashed neatly into thick slices, sprinkled with raspberries and topped with wet, warm basil. The tempting aroma wafts through the room and I take the golden-brown end slice, tearing off a bite gratefully and swallowing, the buttery and sweet taste lingering in my mouth as my throat bobs with a swallow.

"Hungry, hungry hippo," Trina teases me as she enters the room. Her hair waves gracefully down her shoulders and her eyes are flecked brown as she plucks a thin slice from the loaf.

"Did you call me a hippo?" I say in fake offense.

"You aren't exactly the thinnest kid out there," she comments, muffled from the mouthful of bread.

"I'm not a hippo, though!"

"Yeah, yeah, _sure_." She grins and my mom separates us. "We have to go," she says grimly. "It's time."

Trina's face becomes taut immediately, and my father's face is drawn, worry lines creasing the edges of his eyes as we silently file out of the house, feet grinding on the coal-dusted street.

Neighbors join us in the quiet, grim procession down the street, and a small, ice-cold hand takes my own as we reach the square. I gasp a little and then relax as I see a worried looking Cat gripping me tightly, her usual bright eyes dim with anxiety and sadness. 

The Peacekeepers perch like white vultures all along the buildings that enclose the Seam Square, guns trained on us. Every time I look up I see the dark hole and the trigger, and every time I expect to hear a shattering shot and then blood staining the sky.

The sky cracks open and sun pours down on me like golden rain. 

The person who stands, smiling, by the reaping bowls, greets us all with a falsetto voice and a trilling accent. "Hello, my dearest District twelve!" He says loudly, his hands flying out into the air. I notice with a sick pang how his hands are altered to show curving talons instead of fingernails. "We now reap our male and female tributes for the 45th Hunger Games!" 

_Sick_, all of them.

The cameras trained on him slowly span over the crowd and I smile nervously as one lands on me briefly. My hands wiggle together, sweating irrationally, and I squeeze Cat's small fingers tighter. She clutches mine in return. 

After Cat's father, the mayor, comes out and makes the annual speech of the Dark Days, the reaper fishes around in the bowl. "Ladies first!" he says happily, making my stomach churn. His hand plunges into the bowl and fishes around for a few tense moments.

To my pounding heartbeat, they feel like years.

Time slows down as he draws his hand up from the bowl, a yellowing, crinkled paper in his pudgy fingers. His mouth moves slowly as a name bursts out like a death cry.

"Victoria Vega."


	2. The Train

CHAPTER TWO 

Scientists say shock is a body's reaction a startling admission. Often, it's caused by a drop in blood pressure, or heartbeats per second. Shock can be caused by anything. It's the sweat that beads from your palms and rolls down your forehead. 

Which I can understand as my heart thuds once. Twice. And then stops. Shock is many things, but right now, it is the two words that burst from his mouth and drop like a bomb.

I feel Cat's fingers release mine. I hear her choke a sob. I hear my mother cry out. I see Trina's eyes fly open and gasp. I see my father's face explode in horror. I hear the sad murmuring of the crowd.

I see my world crumble to bits. 

I see dead bodies. 

And I take a step forward. One foot, two feet, slapping against the cobblestones as I stumble toward the stage.

_Why is my body so numb?_

This is _worse_ than one of those guns firing straight into my heart.

I stagger up the steps and sweep my gaze out over the crowd. Cat is whimpering and crying, Trina is staring at me like she can't believe it, jaw gaping, and my mother is sobbing into my father's shoulder.

I'm as good as _dead. _

Time.

Breathe _in_—

_Out. _

Let it go.

My life flashes before my eyes as the crowd shifts and murmurs, and I ball my fists.

I will _be_ strong.

I don't hear the reaper's fake sympathy or his high pitched voice saying, "I'm _sure _you'll be a fighter!"

Like I'm some pig up for slaughter. "Yeah," I say, and my voice cracks. I breathe in. "Yes," I say, stronger this time. "I'm going to win." My voice echoes with conviction, fire licking among spoken truth.

He gives me a small smile, and I can see genuine grief flickering behind hooded, shielded eyes, as if he's seen more and he knows my words aren't true; ancient grief for all those lost. Then he turns back to the crowd, grief vanished, falsetto voice ringing out harshly. "_Now_, for the male tribute of District 12!"

His stupid hand, pudgy fingers ending in grotesque curled talons, shifts among the large, crystal-glass bowl of paper slips. He pulls out a small curled piece, eyes narrowing slightly.

"For our male tribute, we have Andre Harris!" He shouts out, and my heart clenches, an invisible hand wrapping around organs and twisting and ripping.

_Is the whole world _against_ me today?_

__Andre goes to my school; he's one of my best friends. He, Cat and I—we're a group. We've got each other's backs, always.

Cat will be_ crushed_.  
>My eyes flicker almost unconsciously over to where she stands. Her eyes are wide, and as I watch a wail erupts from her mouth to be lost in the crowd's voice. Tears stream down her face and something in me breaks as I see Andre make his way through the crowd. His face is impassive, but I see anger flickering beside closed doors as he mounts the steps firmly and sweeps a fiery gaze over the crowd.<p>

My eyes slide sideways and I see him raise his chin and give me a strong look, words silently passing between us as he grips my hand tightly, warmth in this world of cold.

The next things that happen are blurred, a fade of memory—the speech from the Mayor, the sobs of family from the crowd, the slight anger that tenses the whole district at the unfairness of the Games. All I remember is Cat's heartbroken face, Andre's defiance, Trina's anger and fury and fear at the Capitol, my parent's grief stricken looks.

They push me into a white-walled room. "Stay here," a Peacekeeper snarls at me. "Your loved ones will be here to say goodbye."

They make it sound like a funeral. And it is, with all technicalities. A bloody, drawn out, murderous funeral used for sickening entertainment.

"Okay—" I say, wincing as my voice breaks. "Yeah, I'll—I'll stay here." I'm breathless.

They leave; guns swinging over their shoulders as white forms file out like bright death.

My thumb does gentle swipes against the worn, blood red velvet of the couch in the stark room. It's soft and beaten, the russet mahogany arms curling upward sharply and stabbing the air with whorled, knotted wood. The legs of the couch swirl downward and dig into the floor with claw-like ends. _  
><em>

After a few minutes, the door swings open and cold, sterilized light pours through. A long shadow falls onto the floor, dying at my feet as my head snaps up and my nose burns with unshed tears.

My mother slams into me with the force of a boulder and I fall into her arms, tears finally breaking as the reality of my situation hits me hard. Rocks. Comets. Meteors. And I'm earth, as they smash into me crushingly. Her hand circles my back, whispering comforts in my ear as my sobbing ceases and I raise my head. "You win, baby girl," she whispers. "I don't care how. You just—" She chokes it off. "_Win."_

Ω

Andre and I meet on the train to the Capitol. His eyes are bloodshot and the slight wet tracks on his dark cheeks speak of recent tears, but he says nothing, only gripping me in a crushing hug, a breath rattling his ribs as he exhales.

"I'm _scared_, Andre," I whisper, nose stinging with unshed tears.

He says, "I know."

And he does know. He's scared too. Death is coming for us, drawing near, cackling as it raises our chins and caresses the scythe across our necks.

"We've gotta be strong, muchacha," he says softly, letting me go. "I won't let you go down. You got my back?"

"Yes," I affirm, nodding quickly. "Allies?"

"Always," he says, gripping my hand, wringing it. Gold shimmers over his eyes, reminding me of warm black coffee, the darkest brown, almost colored onyx. "Listen," he adds, lowering his voice. "You're not to go to the Cornucopia, you hear me? I will. Okay?" 

"But what if—"

"I'll be fine," He says, though doubt ridges his words. "Trust me. _Promise_ me?"

"I promise," I vow, breath whooshing out between clenched teeth. 

"Our tributes!" A voice comes solemnly from the train's interior and we look up quickly as a figure enters into the small room we're in. The land is flying by outside. "Mister Andre… and Missus Tori."

The man who has spoken is a slightly tall, balding man with fluffy dust-colored hair circling his head and light gray eyes. He extends his hands in our direction, sadness lingering in the pale depths of his eyes. "Welcome, welcome. My name is Erwin, but you can call me Sikowitz."

"Hi," I say, eyes darting in confusion to Andre. He shrugs once, lazily, and then turns back to Sikowitz. 

"And who are you?"

Sikowitz beams. "I'm Tori's stylist. I'm the man who'll get you ready for the pre-Games!" His words are falsely cheerful, and I can see disgust in his eyes as he says the word 'games', and I find myself immediately liking this man. I notice that he is holding a large coconut in his right hand, and the large brown sphere, covered in minute translucent hairs, looks strange to me. I've never seen one in real life; I've only seen them on the static television we own.

"Okay," I say tentatively. "Then—"

"No time to talk!" he says jovially, hurrying across to seize my arm and pull me across the train's length. "It's time to get you ready, Miss Vega."  
>After many hours of painful and awkward 'things to get me ready,' I emerge, body taut with pain.<p>

I never knew waxing could be so painful, I think as I run an awed hand along the bronze skin on my legs. It's utterly smooth.

I enter my small room on the train and look inside a polished mirror with apprehension. Chestnut locks of hair twirl down my shoulders and remind me of sun, condensed into hair. My skin is a pale caramel color, warm and soft, and my cheekbones are intensified by shadow. Eyes are large pools of syrup and chocolate, bright and glowing, almost, flecked with amber eyeshadow above.

"Wow, Tori, you look great."

My head snaps to the left to see Andre leaning against the wall. He overall looks the same, but tiny differences show—arms are smooth and gleaming, rippling with strength, and his hair is braided ever-so carefully, with flawless detail. His eyes are intensified by shadows above and below, and I grin at him. "We'll look pretty, going to the grave."

"True," he laughs grimly.

And I can't stifle the pang of utter fear that scours my heart dry. 


	3. The Darkness

CHAPTER THREE

The next day, we reach the Capitol. Today is the day we face up to our enemies, the other tributes, and train. It's you and your skill going into the arena and the stronger, the better. The weak don't survive at all. When I wake, I shoot up, eyes casting about in a panic. I wonder where I am before it all comes crashing back in a wave that leaves me breathless. I roll from the soft bed, sheets tangling around my still-tingling skin that is burning from the 'makeover' yesterday. I stumble into the bathroom and frown a little at my appearance. I look like the living dead.

My hands search through the drawers—many of the objects are foreign to me—until I happen upon a hairbrush. Drawing it out, I run it through my hair, wincing as little tangles get caught in the bristling edges. The strand of hair comes out a silky chestnut color, falling like a waterfall over the narrow build of my shoulders. My eyes are shadowed underneath with restlessness. A loud voice bursts through the wall. "Tori! Get out here for breakfast. We gotta leave early to the Training Center, remember?" I yell back an agreement and quickly sort out the tangles, throwing on a fitted orange tank top—it feels oddly soft and built for me, and all I've ever worn is a simple hunting cloak—and dark black pants that hug my waist tightly. I pad from the room out into the hall, eyes widening as a sweet aroma hits me.

Out in the main room of the train, a large table is set with foods of all kinds: things I've only ever seen. A pot of steaming chocolate rests in the center, surrounded by chunks of strawberry and the ulcerous white meat of coconuts, which Sikowitz is eating happily. A large basket of white, fluffy bread is opposite, a small cup of butter flowering in the center. Bowls of raspberries, breads, wines, meats, cheeses, and ices cover the rest of the tabletop, all of them glimmering invitingly.

I take a seat next to Andre. His plate is piled high and he grins goofily at me as I raise an eyebrow at him. "Hey," he says, muffled around a mouthful of breadroll, "Might as well fatten up now, eh?"

I roll my eyes. "Andre, we're not pigs for slaughter," I laugh softly, to which he shrugs. "We _kinda_ are," he points out with another shrug, shoveling up a mouthful of chocolate.

Stomach growling, I fill my plate, avoiding the wine and ices and going for bread and cheese and chocolate instead. The foods are amazing—better than any rabbit or wild fruits I ever brought home. An hour or so later, Sikowitz stands and claps for our attention. "Alright, you young hoppers. It's time for you two to go to the Training Center and meet your fellow enemies!"

"Murderers, more like," Andre grumbles under his breath. I give him a soft punch in the arm. "Hush!"

We reach the Training Center in an hour and Sikowitz stands outside the door.

His gray eyes are oddly solemn; chin set firmly as he pushes Andre and I lightly into the huge steel-colored room. Cold white lights string along the dim walls and pour brightly down onto the padded floor below. Ledges line the walls and two tributes are leaping, cat-like, along them. As I watch, the male tribute's foot slips off the narrow crevice and he falls with a gasp, plummeting to the floor. It's not a long fall and the floor is thick with dull gray padding, so he lands on his feet. The female laughs at him before springing across to the next ledge, her eyes flicking to me as the door closes behind Andre and I. Her eyes are a bright icy blue that glint impassively at me before she jumps upward.

The male tribute that fell lopes over to us with a good-natured gleam in his brown eyes. His hair is mussed, ruffled and jagged above his tanned skin. "Howdy," he says, greeting us with a friendly crook of his mouth. "I'm Beck Oliver. District 2."

Andre smiles back at him, though wariness shows in the tense line of his mouth, the glimmer in his eyes as he shifts slightly in front of me. _Protecting me, _I realize.

"Andre Harris," Andre replies, shaking his hand, "District 12. This is my friend—"

"I'm Tori Vega," I say sweetly, shaking his hand. He gives me a warm grin and I can see he's an open, honest person, and my heart pangs with sorrow. Not everyone here is a bad person. No one is a killer.

He doesn't deserve to die either.

"Nice to meet you," he says politely, "Though, well… it sucks that it's under these circumstances."

"That's right, dog," Andre chuckles coldly. "Sometimes…" He trails off, clamping his mouth shut as his eyes dart upward toward the Capitol officials. "Yeah. Sucks."

Over the next hours of training, we bond. Get to know each other. I want to make these last moments of my life as wonderful as possible, and… and to spend it with good people seems okay.

When the lunch break comes, Beck sits with Andre and I, and a skinny, pasty boy from District 11 joins us. They serve us a plate of boiled peas, swimming in butter, thick chops of charboiled lamb, and potatoes that are overlaid with steaming sauces.

"Hi," he says in a quavering voice, glasses sliding down his nose as he drops beside Beck, food plate clattering on the oaken table. "I'm Robbie Shapiro."

"Hey, man," Beck says, clapping him on the back with a grin. "Come to join the ladies and I?"

"Hey!" Andre protests with a laugh, faking offense. "I can prove for a fact I am _not _a lady—"

"Andre, no one wants to see that," I intervene, fork spearing a piece of boiled lamb and bringing it to my mouth. It tastes wonderful, better than anything I ever tasted at home. "No," Robbie mutters. "Nobody else wants to sit with me. That's all."

"Well, we won't judge," I offer him with a small smile, chewing and swallowing. "No need to be mean, when we can count the number of days left, right?"

Robbie's eye twitches under the thick frame of his glasses, and he gives a nervous grin. "R-right. Yeah."

"Hey, Andre." I lean over, putting my lips by his temple to whisper in his ear. Andre drops his fork and shoots me a questioning look. "What is it, chica?"

"I want these guys as allies."

He gives me a slightly doubtful look. "I dunno, Tor. They seem nice, but…" He lets his sentence trail off, shrugging, eyes swimming in concern.

"I can tell when people are being honest and this Robbie kid and Beck will be good allies. Robbie is clearly very smart and Beck seems to be good for the physical work we'll need to do—" "Okay, okay, fine." Andre grumbles, hands folding over the table. "Yeah, sure. Allies it is."

"Beck, Robbie?" I say quietly, leaning across, elbows digging into the knotted wood. He gives me his trademark crooked grin, one side of his mouth curving higher than the other.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Do you guys want to be our allies?" I blurt out.

Beck's eyes widen fractionally in surprise and he's quiet for a second, before smiling. "Sure. How about you, Rob?"

"Ye—yes!" He says, looking relieved. "I'd love that."

The bell clangs suddenly, loudly, signaling for lunch to be over. I spring from my seat and work my way through the pressing crowd to the knife-throwing station. I've worked for years with my old hunting knife, and Sikowitz does say to play to my strengths… I stop at the knife-throwing station and pull a short handled blade from the rack of knives, testing it in my hand, thumb running along the blade. A thin trail of blood rises in its wake and I lick it off quickly before pulling back my arm. My eyes narrow at the wall, honing in on a target, before I throw it as hard as I can.

It sticks, quivering, in the wall, lodged between the hard wood panels. I whip my head around as I sense a body beside me. It's the tribute I saw earlier, springing catlike along the wall-ledges. Her eyes are locked on me, and as I back away slightly, she smirks. Her eyebrows perk up, and I notice that the right one is studded with silver piercings. Her eyes are the color of new spring leaves flecked with ice, and her eyelashes are thick and smoky, darkly smudged with black. It makes me think, forcibly so, of a panther waiting to strike and kill.

"H-hi," I say tentatively. She rolls her eyes and stalks past me to yank a long bladed silver knife from the rack, her hands slender and scarred as she does so. I find my eyes unreasonably drawn to every little detail—the lean rising of her shoulder blades, the litheness of her legs, the ripple of muscles over the flat plane of her stomach. Her hair tumbles in cascading curls down her spine, threaded with blue and green, skin pale as snow. "If you're just going to stare at me, _twelve, _you might as well go to another station." Her words shock me from my daze and she gives a smug grin, hurling the knife across the span of the station. It knocks mine from the wall and clatters to the floor, leaving her knife alone, protruding from the seam.

I back away and leave the station, joining Andre across the room. He is perched on the first, lowest ledge, feet dangling over the side. I haul myself up with a grunt and we both look over at Jade, tossing knives around like it's nothing.

Robbie comes up to us, a slight sweat sheening his forward, camouflage paints smearing his fingers. He lightly jumps up to the ledge, slight muscle ruffling under his shirt. "Look at her," Robbie breathes, eyes on Jade. Fear flashes in their depths. "What in the name of gravy…?" Andre's voice is quizzical as he whips his head toward her, hair swinging back over his broad shoulders. "That's Jade West," Robbie says nervously, his glasses slightly fogged as he leans on the wall beside us. "She's from District 2. Beck's partner." "The weaponry district, that explains why she looks so badass," Andre clarifies with a nervous laugh, awe ringing in his voice. I hear none of it, because my eyes are captured by her. She's—I never would say this about just anyone, but she's _beautiful_ in a dark way, hair flying out behind her, face frozen in fiery anger, knives flashing around her hands like falling stars. She reminds me of a supernova in all its deadly beauty.


	4. The Pact

CHAPTER FOUR

She's tall and lean, with a body suit that hugs her tightly, showing off rippling muscles and lithe arms. Her skin is pale as snow, her face is a mask of ice, blue eyes piercing as they sweep the room, mouth twisted in a snarl of defiance. They land on me and fire flashes through them, pale and cold. As I gaze, speechless, she turns and draws back her arm and flings a knife at the wall. It arches swiftly through the air with a bright flash and then with a loud _crack, _it sticks, quivering, in the wall. Jade's eyes sweep back over the multitude of tributes and they land on Andre, Robbie, and I, and then she starts to walk toward us. "What's she looking so pissed about?" I ask softly as she approaches.

Andre shrugs, hair falling back as he straightens. Robbie's lip twitches in a frown. "She's a strong one," he tells me. "She'll probably win, you know. Woman of steel."

"I wouldn't mind having her as an ally, especially because Beck is her district partner," Andre says appreciatively. I nod as she stops in front of us, eyes scanning me over. Something like—respect? Surprise? —flashes through the pale orbs before she speaks, hand resting on her sharply angled hip.

"So. District 12 and 11, huh?"

"Yup," Andre says good-naturedly, "And you're a 2, right?"

She nods sharply, swinging up onto the ledge where we sit, body flexing and muscles rippling sleekly as she settles. "Looks like 12 might have a chance this year," she laughs humorlessly, eyes flickering over Andre and I. 

"As for 11… well, looks like it's a lost cause, bag of bones."

I give Jade an angry glare which she returns with a smug smirk. She reaches over and prods Robbie once in the chest, causing him to squeak in offense and cover his scrawny ribs. "Glasses don't last long in the arena, I'll give you that."

"Why not?" The question falls out before I can stop it, and her eyes jerk to the side, piercing me, pinning me to the wall. Once again, that same fire flares in her eyes, and her lips curl up in a dry smile.

"The Capitol doesn't like them, _princess_. It ruins their image of perfection, bad eyesight does. Plus, let's face it. It's not exactly sunshine and rainbows in that slaughter hole." She rolls her eyes, her hands sprawled lazily behind her.

"I know that," I snap back, angry at her clear contempt of Robbie. I slide forward, dropping from the ledge. "Come on, Andre, Robbie. Let's go train."

I hear their feet hit the floor as they follow, and to my surprise, Jade trails after us. "Wait up, hey. I'm not going to kill you… yet." Her voice is softly dangerous, and she's poised, body looking like she's about to spring. I'm forcibly reminded of a panther, dark furred and lethal with glowing eyes, bone-white claws scratching against the ground. 

"What was your name? Vega? Come with me."

"Tori—" Andre's voice is concerned and I see worry dart through his dark brown eyes as he steps forward. I lay a hand on his arm. "I'll be fine," I say. "Stay here and—and help Robbie, okay?" I lower my voice, hand tightening around his broad arm. "Robbie—he won't last long. I don't want him dying right off in the bloodbath. Please, Andre?"

He nods firmly and gives me a sorrowful smile. "I'll get him some strength into those scrawny muscles of his. You go on, now."

Jade is waiting, foot clacking impatiently against the floor as she rolls her eyes at me. "Sympathy won't get you anywhere," she growls as I walk off with her. "Didn't for me."

"What do you—?"

"My mom was killed in the arena ten years ago," she says softly, and I hear raw pain and anger and grief writhing beneath her impartial tone. "But I told Beck, I said, _I'm not going to die like this._ They can't control me, can't make me die for sick entertainment."

I say nothing.

We stop in a dark, abandoned corner. "So what do you want?" I ask, my heart crawling up my throat. She folds her arms, silent for a moment, eyes running up and down me. They're so shattering I think she can see my soul, read my mind.

"How would _you_ like to be allies?"

I'm not sure I hear her right, at first. The words are so soft, barely a breath in the stale air, that my jaw drops. "W-what?"

"I said—"

"No, I- I heard you." My throat bobs in a swallow, and her eyes spark in amusement, pale spring grass flecked with dew. "I just—why?"

"'Cause, _Vega," _she smirks, her hand rising and cupping my cheek, the small gesture making me shiver, ice and fire scorching my veins. Her eyes slice through me like silvery green knives, glowing and glinting in the dim light. Her other hand grips my shoulder icily and her lip curls up in a smirk. "You look like a fighter, and with your pretty little looks, you'll get a lot of sponsors. So?"

"I—yeah. Yes, I'd- I'd love that," I stutter, heart falling to the floor and beating there, throbbing red veins bleeding out as her fingers brush down and linger on my collarbone.

She smirks as if she can feel my racing heart. "Slow the pulse before you kill yourself," she says, confirming my thoughts, and I blush furiously as her fingers draw back from my sternum.

She turns, black hair trickling down her back as she slowly saunters away, hips swaying as her feet silently whisper against the floor. "Plus," she adds, so softly I'm not sure if I'm imagining it, "You look like somebody I'd want to have on my side."

Then she's gone, leaving me clutching my heart and wondering what the hell just happened.


	5. The Rifts

_**CHAPTER FIVE**_

_**(Hi peeps! I just want to mention I got the idea for this story from the lovely amazingness known as JATMAB, or . It's run by the lovely Emma who I practically worship due to her amazing impressions of our favorite ladies from Victorious :) So Emma, if you're reading this, I think you are EPIC and deserve all the cookies in the world! –gives you, Jade, and Tori a cookie- This chapter is dedicated to you cause I'll never be as good at impersonating these gals :3)**_

I slowly creep out from the dark corner and follow Jade back into the training room. The knife throwing station is occupied, and so is the camouflage, and as I watch I can see Beck and Andre together at a station where they are throwing rocks at a burlap target.

My gaze slowly sweeps the room until I see a place with spears, leaned against a wooden rack. My feet carry me toward the station, occupied with only one person. It's a boy with a lean build, tall and lanky with high cheekbones, an angular face, and steely gray eyes. Black hair sweeps over his pale skin, face drawn taut as he pulls back his arm and lets the spear fly, whistling dangerously until it hits the wall and clatters to the ground with a_ clang_.

"You're Tori, right?" He says it so softly, so smoothly, I don't hear him at first. I gently pick up a spear, testing its weight, as my eyes dart toward his lean graceful pacing as I smile tentatively.

"Yeah, hello." 

"Hmm," is all he says, lifting his spear and padding back to the rack. "Careful not to accidently kill anyone before it's allowed." I look up, eyebrows furrowed over my nose, to see him watching the Gamemakers in disgust and pure hatred.

"Who're you?" I ask challengingly, raising my arm and hurling the spear at the bag. It misses and glances off the side, earning a snort from the boy.

"The name is Jordan," he says politely, flipping his frosted black hair from his forehead, eyes glinting with a strange light. "District 10." 

"Which one is that?" I bite the inside of my lip, searching my mind. "No, don't tell me… wait! It's the—the livestock district. Right?"

He laughs softly. "Right you are." Suddenly, he takes a step toward me, hands outstretched, voice softly dangerous, tempting like the devil. "You have any allies, 12?"

I take a step back, the spear tight in my hand. "I—Uh. Yeah. Sorry, but I don't want to be yours…"

His eyes flare suddenly with cold anger. "Fine, then." His pace is tight as he strides over to the spears and jerks one up, throwing it at the wall with a surge of visible anger. It hits the wall with a loud crack and I flinch away.

Rifts are already splitting down and the anger is going to bomb in the arena.

I can only hope I survive the explosion.

**Jade's P.O.V**

It's not often you see someone like her, I think, knife dancing between my fingers. The corner of my mouth curls down in a frown as I glare her way, contemplating it, knife stopping at the edge of my palm.

I'm going to get a dagger at the Cornucopia. I'm allied with five other people. It shouldn't be hard. Beck is strong and stalwart and trustable. He'll grab whatever's close and get out, and he'll protect anybody in our group he can, but he won't kill unless he has to, unless it's impossible to avoid. That's always been the difference between us two. When Beck was reaped, I volunteered for the female tribute. Beck's like a brother to me. I was a lover to him, but never reciprocated. 

Andre… I don't know about him. He looks decent, because he's with this Vega kid, and his eyes… I've always been able to read people and he's an open book. I'll be glad to have him on my side, what with his scary looks of strength and power. I'm not guaranteeing anything, though.

Robbie. I bite my cheek, knife whirling into action again; darting as I spin it rapidly through closed fingers. He looks weak. He'll be good for brains and knowledge but I can feel it—he won't survive long. I can tell these things.

Tori.

I can feel her, flickering under closed down thoughts like an undying flame. I saw her and instantly she lit up my thoughts, with her set jaw and steely eyes and balled fists. She's my greatest enemy and I need to keep her close.

My hands slowly release the knife and it falls as I stalk away from the station, chin held high. I cast around until I see a station where a scrawny kid is bludgeoning a test-dummy with a spiked mace. He's handling it roughly, weakly, sloppily, almost beheading himself as he tosses it around.

I mount the stage and pick one up with ease, testing the spikes with the pad of my thumb. They're dulled for _safety, _which makes me snort at the irony. Our so-called 'safety' is the last thing they care about. Riches, money, and entertainment is all they exists in their minds.

I hurl it, jerking in my fist as it swings away and knocks a dummy from its standstill high up. It yanks back to the ground with a soft thump and I smirk at the gawking kid.

"Stop staring before I take a swing at you," I snap, and he squeaks in fear and drops his mace with a resounding 'thud' on the floor.

"Mind if I join you?"

I turn my head to see Tori, fingers plucking nervously along the hem of her tank. She's skittering across the stage ever so slightly, and I smirk. "Why the hell not?" I say nonchalantly. As her face relaxes, I swing the mace as hard as I can at a crash dummy, knocking it a clear fifty feet across the floor, and her smile drops immediately.

To my surprise, she handles a large bludgeon well. Her arms flex with muscle as she twirls it through slender gold hands, face set in concentration.

"I had my doubts," I comment softly, "But I think you _might _make it past the bloodbath, _princess."_

"Why do you call me that?" 

"Cause you look like—no," I say hastily as she smirks, "You look soft. Not much a fighter."

"You'd be surprised," is all she says. "Very surprised," she adds in a softer tone.


End file.
